Suds and Sam

by Stella Marie Alden

  “For now, we’re just trying to figure out what happened.”

  “What? Do you think he did it?” I know it’s part of the job but I hate working for the bad guy.

  My boss shrugs. “Too soon to tell.”

  “No worries. I’m on it.” I pick up my cell phone and call Samantha.

  “Hello?” I can barely hear her over small machines and women chattering in the background.

  “Sam? Where the hell are you?” I try to picture where she might be but come up blank.

  She must walk outside because now there’s traffic noises. “I’m, ah, on a missing person’s case.”

  “You don’t have a license.” I glance over at Slate who rolls his eyes and puts a hand to his forehead as if he has a headache.

  Her bubbly voice continues, oblivious to everything, as usual. “It’s off the books. A favor for a friend.”

  I don’t like the sound of that but don’t want Slate overhearing any more of my side of the conversation. “Slate wants you to come in. We need you for a job.”

  “Okay, but I need to finish up what I’m doing. I can be there at noon. Is that okay?”

  “You want me to pick you-”

  “No! I’m good. Really. The subway is faster.”

  “Good luck.” Slate snickers as I make my way out the door. “And don’t fucking sleep with her.”

  Chapter 4

  Samantha

  I hang up the phone and shout out to Aunt Marion sitting by the cash register at the front of the salon. “Can I leave early? I got a case.”

  “I thought you already had one?” Rose shuts down Mrs. Grundy’s hair drier and turns to me as I clean up the pink sink.

  I grab my tip jar, grab a few singles and dump a pound of change into my purse. “Yeah, but finding Frankie's long lost love is going to take some time. I’ll take whatever I can get.”

  Mrs. Delphino, her hair in foil, looks up from her People magazine. “Frankie? That old bastard? He never loved anyone except his damn cat. Just ask his ex-wife.”

  My eyes pop open. “You know her?”

  “Hell yeah, everyone does. Frankie took her to court but she got custody of the cat. He threatened to kill her, the wife, not the cat, so she, the wife, got a restraining order and moved out of the neighborhood.”

  I smile, dollar signs flashing in front of my eyes. “Do you know where she lives?”

  Double chins bob as she nods. “With her daughter in Bayonne. She’s some piece of trash. Do you know that she-”

  Missing the rest of the gossip, I grab my sweater out of the coat closet in the back. “Bye. See you later.”

  My bag weighs a million pounds and as I sling it over my shoulder, Mia shouts out. “I’ll pray for you.”

  I roll my eyes at Rose who waves me out the door. “Go get ’em, cuz.”

  “Will do. See you tomorrow Aunt Marion.”

  “Bye doll. Remember, a Russo always gets her man.”

  “That’s the Royal Canadian Mounties.”

  “Whatever.” She laughs and the ladies all chitter as I run out the door and catch my breath at the closest subway stop.

  Of course, the train is slow and it’s almost one by the time I arrive in the lobby of Patten’s building.

  “Where’ve you been?” Suds growls as he takes my arm and leads me to his idling car.

  “Hey. I’m only a contract worker. I got other clients. I got here as soon as I could.” His long legs make it almost impossible to keep up.

  “What other clients?” He opens the door for me then runs around the front.

  “I’m helping a guy looking for the love of his life. He’s offered me big bucks to find her.”

  Suds eyes narrow. “From your mother’s side of the family or your dad’s?”

  I don’t figure it’s any of his business so change the subject as he eases into traffic. “Where’re we going?”

  “Congressman Bannerman’s home in Westchester, the place where they found his wife’s body.” He glances into the rear view mirror and shifts his gaze to me while handing over his open laptop.

  The file says he was with his mistress all night then came home and found his wife dead in the garden shed.

  “Wow, did they arrest him?”

  “No.” He grimaces as we hit another stop light.

  “But you think he did it?”

  “It looks bad. He left his girlfriend’s house early this morning. He says he called the cops right away but they took him in for questioning. His lawyer called Slate and asked us to investigate.”

  This kind of thing is right up my alley. Surely I can help out and Patten will hire me full time. “How was she murdered?”

  “Stabbed with a screwdriver, they think.” He waits at a traffic light, jaw muscles tensing.

  “Are you mad at me?” I’m not getting why his answers are so short and his tone off.

  “No. I didn’t sleep good, that’s all.”

  “Do you know why I was called in?” Patten must have other analysts.

  “You should probably ask Slate.”

  “I’m asking you for your opinion.”

  “Not sure but if I were you, I’d bring your ‘A’ game.” His dark brows raise as I read over the case file.

  I study in silence as we make our way up the FDR, toward the George Washington Bridge. Finally, I ask, “You think the husband’s good for it?”

  He zigzags through traffic and gets into the right lane. “Bannerman has a mistress in the city and his wife had a pretty nice sized life insurance policy. Sometimes, it’s obvious.”

  “I don’t know. Men cheat. It’s what they do. That doesn’t mean they’re killers. If so, we’d have a hell of a lot more murders to solve.”

  “Excuse me? Y’all aren’t putting me in the same category, are you?” His eyes get stormy.

  “Well, in order to qualify, you’d have to have a wife. I’m guessing you’ve never even had a long term relationship. So no, this isn’t about you.”

  “Shit.” He turns his head toward me and scowls. “I don’t cheat. Period.”

  We don’t say much more on the way to Westchester. While I review the case, he drives like a madman and grumbles at the traffic under his breath. I was going to mention something about slowing down but think better of it.

  Once we hit the burbs, he leads me across a great lawn to where a bunch of officers huddle around a shed. The main house, a McMansion with at least twenty bedrooms, sits about a hundred yards back. A circular driveway cuts around delicate shrubs and exquisite gardens. A carriage house serves as a garage, the doors open.

  I see a pal of mine from the FBI who apparently doesn’t know I’ve been let go which works well for us. I introduce Suds, then we both take a whole lot of pictures with our cell phones.

  They won’t let us into the congressman’s home so we walk the perimeter and I notice a lot of holes in the grass.

  Suds sees where my eyes stare. “Gophers?”

  “I don’t think so. I motion over a brown man with pruning shears and point. “Excuse me. What are these from?”

  He shakes his head and wipes a tear away with a red handkerchief. “The missus refused to use chemicals. Made me pull up the dandelions by hand. Damned tough work.”

  “Why, did she have pets?”

  “Si, si. She did some research and found out what was good for the lawn was bad for her little dog. She was a real nice lady. I’m going to miss her.”

  Suds sidles next to me. “We’re sorry for your loss. Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her?”

  The gardener shrugs, picks a stone out of the lush grass, and tosses it into the garden “Not really. She was kind. You know? Caring about the environment. Stuff like that. Who would want to kill such a good person?”

  “Thank you for talking to us.” I hand him one of Suds’ cards. “Call us if you think of anything else.”

  While we were talking, a crowd has grown around a limousine where Congressman Bannerman exits his vehicle.


  Paparazzi take pictures until his temper snaps. “Just leave me the fuck alone.”

  A guy steps in front of his face, Bannerman pushes him aside, and the photographer punches him in the nose. After a scuffle, they both calm down.

  Suds’ phone pings. “Yeah? Okay. Sure.”

  He hangs up. “Slate says he wants me to stay and guard our suspect. You can either take the SUV or grab an Uber back to Brooklyn.”

  “The SUV is fine.” As I grab the keys, the guy who threw the punch at the congressman heads to the shed. He disappears for a moment, then comes out, his head turning in all sorts of directions.

  What the hell was he up to?

  Chapter 5

  Suds

  I take a few steps to where the congressman fumes by the curb as three news vans pull up. Before he opens his mouth, his lawyer takes his arm and motions me over.

  “Tom, this is your new bodyguard and best friend, Sebastian Sutcliff.”

  Bannerman eyes me, his nose still bleeding from the guy who decked him. “I don’t need a fucking babysitter.”

  I grin and give him a shitload of southern charm. “No sir. Y’all need someone to punch these motherfuckers before they punch you.”

  He smiles and his hand shoots out to shake mine. “Welcome aboard, you can call me Tom.”

  “I’m Suds.”

  “Drinker?”

  “Not really. Short nickname. Long story. Let’s get you into the house.”

  He looks at the huge mansion and shakes his head, no. His voice cracks, “I-I can’t.”

  “Sir?” I put my body between him and the reporters trying to ask him stupid questions.

  Maybe I was wrong about him. Real tears flow down his cheeks. “Can you take me back to the city? I have an apartment there.”

  “Sure. Do you need anything from the house? Clothes? Computer?” The police probably will confiscate everything but I can try.

  “No, I’ll get by. I-I just can’t go back into that house… Knowing I wasn’t here when she was… killed.”

  The guy’s either an excellent actor or is truly mourning his wife. Who am I to judge? My job is to keep him safe while the law figures out his fate.

  Samantha comes out of the shed and approaches slowly. She looks at her phone, scrolls through images, and frowns.

  I’m sure she’s holding back and want to grill her. “We’re going back to the city after all. Want a lift?”

  “Sure.”

  The whole way back to Manhattan, she stares at her cell pursing her lips. I want to ask her more but not in front of the congressman. She’s obviously found something.

  On the George Washington Bridge, she shuts off her electronics and looks out the window but seems on edge. “Drop me off at Lexington and Second. I’ll take the subway from there.”

  If we were alone, I’d tell her hell no. With Bannerman, I got no choice but to let her go.

  After parking the car on Eighth Avenue, I walk Thomas to his apartment on Fifty-Seventh. The guy must be loaded to have a place both in Westchester and here. Silently, I ride with him up the elevator and into the building.

  At the door, two cops in uniform and two guys in suits ambush him. “Thomas Bannerman? You’re under arrest for the murder of your wife, Sylvia Bannerman.”

  “I’ll call your lawyer. Y’all don’t say nothin’ at all. Y’hear?”

  He nods and as they put him in cuffs, I call Slate and update him.

  “I want you here. Now.” He sounds pissed.

  What the fuck? “Copy that.”

  I watch the cops drive the congressman away, hop back into the SUV, and park it in our lot. Exiting the elevator on the twelfth floor I head straight to Slate’s office where Sam sits.

  “Something is off.”

  She looks up while I glance at Slate and ask, “Care to fill me in?”

  “Go ahead, Sam.” At the encouraging look from our boss, she takes a deep breath.

  As if about to go diving for oysters, she begins. “I took some pictures of the shed before the paparazzi fight and then after and I think the guy who threw the punch planted some evidence. It was a dandelion puller. See right here?”

  I marvel at the length of her sentence even as I gaze at the pictures.

  The first photos show an empty set of holes where tools were no doubt stored. The second photo shows one long wood handled driver with a ‘V’ at the end which wasn’t there in the first.

  “What’s that?” I point at her phone.

  “It pulls weeds out by the roots.” She calls up a Home Depot photo of a similar tool on Google.

  “And?”

  “I’m betting it’s the murder weapon. But this guy.” She flashes a picture of the photographer. “He planted it.”

  “I’m sorry. Maybe I’m slow, but why would some paparazzi want to plant a murder weapon at a crime scene?”

  “I’m not sure. The thing is? I’m betting it had the congressman’s blood on it. That’s why they arrested him but I think the whole fight was planned so someone could contaminate the murder weapon with his DNA.”

  She stares at me triumphantly but Slate looks about as confused as me.

  “Can you prove it?” I finally have the where-with-all to ask.

  “Sure. I mean, I can. Don’t you believe me?”’

  “It’s a bit of a stretch.” I don’t want to insult her but how the hell did she come up with this?

  “You do see the puller wasn’t there and then it was. We need to ask the police for the original crime scene photos.”

  “And you think they will share them with us why?”

  “Surely, Bannerman’s lawyers will be able to get them…”

  “At some point before the trial yes, but that could take months.”

  “Surely, the police would want to know the murder weapon was planted, after the fact?”

  Slate clears his throat. “Good work, Samantha. We’ll call you if we need anything more.”

  “That’s it?” Biting her lower lip, she pouts.

  “What more is there? You solved the case. I will give this to Bannerman’s lawyer who will get the evidence tossed out of court. You’ll see your check deposited in about two weeks.”

  “Ah, great. Okay. Thanks.” She grabs her purse and when she heads out, I follow.

  “Grab a drink with me?”

  “No, sorry, I can’t.” She checks the time. “I have a missing person’s case to solve.”

  Chapter 6

  Sam

  Solved Mrs. Bannerman’s murder? Not hardly. There’s only one reason to plant evidence, to throw the police off the track of the real killer. However, being a new employee, best I keep my mouth shut so I can keep on paying my rent.

  Still, if the congressman didn’t kill his wife, who did? I want to look into it but I’m guessing Slate has hired others to do the work.

  I did manage to get a shot of the photographer as he exited the shed. I send it to Slate with hopes he can identify the guy. In that we’re working for Bannerman, I suppose it would be wrong to send it to my dad. Maybe I will, if need be.

  In the meantime, I’ll do some research on my own.

  First off, the paparazzi-man, gave me the creeps.

  My phone pings and I sigh. Big Pete wants his date and I did promise. I text back I’m working but give him a tentative date for the Friday after next.

  Suds, who followed me into the elevator, stands behind me, looming in such a way he can see my screen.

  More like a growl, he clears his throat. With his breath warming my ear, he slides his arms around my waist. “Who is Pete?”

  I consider my answer carefully. On one hand, it’s none of his business but on the other hand, the big one, cupping my ass, I could be nice.

  “He’s a dear friend of my Uncle Vinny and owns the pizza parlor. I went to high school with him.”

  Suds turns me in his arms, hurt registering in his eyes. “Are you fucking him?”

  “Lord, no.” The thought of bouncing o
n his big doughy belly while a fat weeny pokes out is disturbing beyond belief.

  “You just agreed to go out with him.” Suds grabs my phone and shoves it in front of my face but I shrug it off. I’m not telling him how low I’ve sunk. It’s better he think I got men lining up at my door than if I don’t date these guys, I’m out on the street.

  “Samantha.” He tips my head up and I’m sucked into the vortex of his heated look.

  “Mmm?” My mind goes blank as my tits go hard and my clit swells.

  “You are mine. Understand?”

  When I nod, his mouth descends upon mine and my knees get weak. Grabbing hold of the back of his neck, I hold him in place. Then, he stands straighter, pulling me into his abs, chest, and well, the rest of his package down below.

  Thank God the elevator dings, otherwise we may have gotten naked before hitting the lobby.

  A hound on my heels, he follows. “Where’re you off to now?”

  “Home.” I walk a little faster down the street, deftly avoiding pedestrians and slipping between them.

  For him, people part like the Red Sea. Whether it’s the sight of his large frame or his angry scowl, it’s not fair.

  “Hold up, Sam.” He curses and dashes down the stairs into the tunnel, swiping his metro card right after me.

  My train arrives in the station so I jump the stairs two at time, dash through the open door and squeeze my small frame in as the doors close.

  My face smooshed against the window, bodies packed tighter than sardines, I wiggle my fingers goodbye as the train pulls out.

  Phew. I can’t have his kind of distraction in my life.

  Mine? Is that what he said?

  If I wasn’t pressed hard to the door, I would melt to the floor in a pool. Help me, I’m melting. What a world, what a world.

  No blue monkeys in sight, I stiffen my backbone.

  I can resist him. Sure I can.

  By the time I reach my stop, I’ve convinced myself I am an independent modern woman, about to become a private eye. It’s a little uncomfortable walking with my panties damp but I can deal with that, too.